


winter's memory of summer (is cold)

by encanta



Series: a rush of blood to the head [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/encanta/pseuds/encanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>her progress is slow, but it's something beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter's memory of summer (is cold)

 

“Our wounds are often the openings into the best and most beautiful part of us.”  
― David Richo

* * *

 

 

The driveway crawling up to Will’s house was long and unpaved, and the car bounced under the gravel as the house came into view, and Alana along with it. The sun was just starting to dip behind the trees, cutting scarlet light across the sky, and she was rocking gently on the porch swing, a hand curled loose around one of the chains as she watched the dogs pace the yard.

When he got out of his car they swarmed him, excited as always at his return, and he reached down to pat the head in reach as his eyes swept the flower beds she’d planted in his absence. She’d added one on either side of the porch steps; dark, fertile soil poured out in tasteful plots, then dotted with pretty spring annuals.

By the looks of her, it’d taken awhile. When he climbed the porch steps and she came clearer into focus, he could see the dirt under her nails, the sweat sticking her hair to her temples, her cheeks pink and slightly sunburned.

She was the most radiant thing he’d ever seen, but he didn’t make a move toward her, just kept his place on the porch. Space was important. He didn’t dare go into hers unless he was invited, something he’d learned and learned well during the couple months she’d been living with him.

“You got a little sun,” Will said finally. She smiled and raised a hand to her face. “I never remember to put on sunscreen.”

He smiled in return and left her out on the porch, dropping his things in the corner and rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

That night during the snowstorm he hadn’t asked her to leave, and come morning he didn’t ask either. She left the next day, when the snow let up and the sun melted a path down the driveway, made it safe for her to bolt.

It’s what he’d expected. No judgment, no emotion, just a need to run that he empathized with on a human level instead of on his own level.

But she’d come back the next day, a big bag of dog food leaned in her arms as she stood on his porch and awkwardly maneuvered a knock around it. It was the penny under her tongue, payment for her ride down the river, and he’d taken it out of her arms without a half-second’s thought.

There had always been a place for her here. There’d always been a place for her in his heart.

And so they’d settled into their arrangement, unspoken and with a surprising ease, and Will tried not to watch Alana so hard out of the corner of his eye to see if she was improving.

“PTSD,” she’d said, a brisk, carefree self-diagnosis, and the way she tilted her chin up and looked at him defiantly, daring him to question, made her look so much braver than she actually felt.

But at night he could hear her crying behind the locked door of his master bedroom, quiet, scared sounds that made him feel lost out at sea.

Only the master bedroom and the basement door were keyed, the locks heavy and antique, dating the actual house by probably a hundred years. She’d probably found the key when she went to put her clothes in the old dresser in the corner. When she retired at night he could hear the sound of the solid deadbolt sliding into place.

He always hoped it kept the nightmares at bay.

The dogs flooded his sitting room as he came down the stairs and Alana appeared after the porch door slammed shut. His foyer smelled like cut grass and flowers and as she shoved her hair out of her face, he held up the small, probably expired bottle of aloe gel he’d gone to get for her.

“For your face,” he explained helpfully, as if that wasn’t clear, and Alana’s smile was teasing as she took the bottle from him, their fingers grazing.

Sometimes when they touched she would get that far off look in her eyes and retreat, up the stairs behind his locked bedroom door, where she would stay for minutes or hours at a time, and that ugly thing cocooned inside of him would raise its head and howl.

And he would hunch into himself and try not to fantasize about beating Hannibal Lecter to death with his bare hands.

But right now, with the foyer full of the flowers she’d just planted and her cheeks just slightly sunburnt, they sat together in his small kitchen and he rubbed the gel gently into her skin, one hand splayed light against her jaw to keep her face steady. Her eyes were closed but her face was slack, peaceful.

It was progress.


End file.
